


in the thrill of it all

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rough Sex, dom!ransom, stumbling into bdsm, sub!holster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: There's something almost -- nearly, slightly, kind of, every once in awhile it's clear as day but most of the time it's just a shadow of a half thought in the back of Ransom's mind but -- there's something almost delicate about Holster.





	1. in the moment

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I got lost in the moment / I guess I got lost in the fall / I guess I got lost in your heartbeat / in the thrill of it all  
> -Sam Smith, The Thrill of it All

There's something almost -- nearly, slightly, kind of, every once in awhile it's clear as day but most of the time it's just a shadow of a half thought in the back of Ransom's mind but -- there's something almost delicate about Holster. 

It's ridiculous, mostly. It's ridiculous because Holster is huge, a Division I athlete, an absolute giant who checks harder than any other person Ransom's every played with including Jack goddamn Zimmermann. It's ridiculous because Holster can fit five hard boiled eggs in his mouth and can hold a basketball in his palm and he's bench pressed Wicky more than once. He's seen Holster shake off hits that would knock him on his ass, witnessed him take a stick to the neck and tape up broken fingers on the bench just so he could keep on playing. Holster? Delicate? It's ridiculous.

It's ridiculous until it's not. 

He initially notices it at the first kegster of their sophomore year, when the Haus lights are turned down low and the music is so loud he can barely hear himself think. Ransom's drunk and loving it, dancing with everyone, bouncing between Bitty and a girl from his public health seminar when he bumps into something solid. When he turns it's Holster, holding a beer in one hand and a cup of water in the other. He holds out the water but Ransom takes the beer. Holster laughs, shaking his head, and turns to leave but Ransom can't have  _ that, _ not when he can feel the bass pulsing through the soles of his shoes and there's a beer here for them to share so he reaches out for Holster, snagging him by the neck. If Ransom were sober he'd be more careful, but Holster doesn't shake him off or keep walking away. He freezes, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, with Ransom's hand hooked around the back of his neck, and he turns when Ransom reels him in. 

"I don't want you to go," Ransom explains, already beginning to move his hips to the music. "I've never danced with you. Why haven't we danced?" he asks, and Holster blinks down at him, eyes catching the reflection from the swirling lights.

"Because I'm a shitty dancer," Holster says, leaning in so Ransom can hear him over the thudding beat. Ransom's still holding his neck; it feels good to pull Holster down so he can speak straight into his ear and it feels better when Holster moves seamlessly under his hand, going precisely where Ransom leads him. 

Ransom shakes his head, or more accurately, his entire body. "No, no," he protests. "Who told you that? I wanna dance with you." 

"You did," Holster says easily. "And Bitty, and Ollie, and Maggie Lennox at her bat mitzvah." Holster's smiling but Ransom frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he considers this new information. His grip loosens slightly and Holster raises his cup of water to his lips, downing it in three large gulps. Ransom watches his Adam's apple -  _ ha! _ \- shift under his skin, illuminated by the light from the kitchen and someone's phone. He can just barely feel the muscles moving under his fingertips. Holster crumples the cup in his hand and throws it in an empty corner of the room; they'll pick it up tomorrow morning. 

He squeezes the back of Holster's neck and watches, mesmerized, as his best friend's eyes drift shut and his broad shoulders tremble with small shivers. He does it again and Holster shakes harder, but he doesn't pull away. 

"Put your hands on my hips," Ransom instructs, and before he can explain that he's going to teach Holster how to dance there's a pair of huge, warm hands wrapped around him. Holster's eyes are just barely open, hooded in the dim light, and when Ransom pulls him closer he moves easily under his palm. Right now, it doesn't feel weird that his best friend's thigh is almost between his legs or that their foreheads are centimeters away from touching. It feels right, easy, natural, inevitable, but when Ransom starts moving his hips Holster stands still, staunchly looking down between their bodies. Ransom taps a finger against the back of his neck, just once, and then it happens. 

Holster's gaze jerks up to meet his just as someone takes a pictures on the other side of the room. The flash illuminates Holster's face for one half of a half of a half of a second and in that tiny fraction of time Holster looks  _ raw, _ vulnerable and breakable and delicate, like he'll snap right in half if Ransom squeezes him too hard. 

For a moment, Ransom’s tempted to try it just to see how Holster would look as he breaks apart. He thinks he’d look beautiful. He’s never really thought of Holster that way, using that word, but now with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes so blue as they catch the light from the kitchen Ransom finds himself thinking,  _ pretty _ .

Ransom quickly scans through his memories of friendship, trying to find a moment when he’s felt like this before. He doesn’t have an excel sheet on the subject, he realizes. He’ll have to rectify that. 

Someone bumps him from behind, sending him stumbling further into the circle of Holster’s arms. Holster jerks again with a loud swear and when Ransom gets his feet under him he realizes he’s spilled most of his beer down Holster's shoulder. The beer streams down his front, arm, and back, soaking the fabric until little drops form at the hem of his shirt. 

"Shit, Holtzy, I'm sorry." Ransom says, trying to stay upright as he tugs on the beer soaked fabric. Holster's glaring at someone in the crowd, probably the person who bumped him, but when he looks down at Ransom the expression shifts to a small smile. 

"S'okay, Rans. It's not your fault." Holster says, wincing when he looks down and sees the damage. Ransom feels bad - he's a defenseman, he shouldn't stumble like that from a little shove - and he knows he only spilled the beer because he's drunk. Holster's drunk, too, he knows, because he's leaning forward as he looks down at his shirt, about to tip over when he suddenly sways back. Ransom sets the almost empty can down and grabs Holster's hand to drag him out of the room. Holster follows easily, pressing so close to him that the back of Ransom's shirt starts to get wet. Ransom can't bring himself to care. It's kind of nice, he thinks, to feel a solid presence behind him even though his back is getting cold and sticky. They have to wait before going up the stairs - there are two separate couples making out on the steps - and as the couples break apart and clear off Holster twists his hand out of Ransom's grip. 

It feels terrible and Ransom has no idea why. His hand twitches, searching for something to close around, but before he can even start to process why an empty hand makes the rest of him feel the same way Holster's hand is back. He laces their fingers together so Ransom's wrist doesn't have to strain backwards, and the moment they touch the emptiness fades. Ransom doesn't have time to process that either, because the stairs are clear and there's beer dripping down his back. 

Ransom knows, logically, that there's no reason for them to continue holding hands while they go up the first flight of steps, and then the second. There's no crowd for them to get lost in; Holster knows exactly where they're going so he doesn't have to lead him. Ransom holds on nevertheless, only letting go when they're in the attic. 

The sounds of the party waft up through the thin floorboards but Ransom pays them no mind as he takes off his shirt and throws it in the dirty laundry corner. He hears a wet thwack as Holster throws his soaking t-shirt in the same direction, lobbing it so it hits the wall before falling into the pile. They'll actually have to do laundry tomorrow now that there's two beer-soaked shirts involved, but Ransom doesn't care. When he turns Adam's wiping down his torso with a thin napkin left over from the Chipotle they ate a few days ago.

"Here, use this." Ransom says, grabbing his water bottle and washcloth from the shelf by his bed. He dumps some water onto the cloth, far too much, actually, but he's drunk and Holster's drunk so it doesn't really matter. He slaps the soaked cloth onto Holster's bare chest, laughing when it splashes water into Holster's eyes, making him blink and jerk back. 

"Hey!" Holster protests, but he's smiling, too, and he doesn't step away. Ransom drags the cloth down Holster's chest and stomach, squinting down at his torso after he feels hard muscle beneath the cloth. 

"Bro," Ransom says. "When did you get so ripped? We work out the exact same amount!" Holster just shrugs but he's beaming; his nonchalance isn't convincing at all. 

"I'm older, dude. And Jack's even older than me and you've seen his abs. Like, what the fuck? Why does he get to have a great face and a great body?" Holster whines, dropping his head so his forehead is resting against Ransom's shoulder. 

Ransom laughs, patting his bare back. "Because he works a million times harder than us and his mom's a literal model," he explains. Holster turns his head, swaying as he leans more of his weight against Ransom. 

"Excellent points as always, my good sir." His lips are pressed against the junction of Ransom's neck and shoulder. A shiver runs up his spine as a surge of arousal spikes in his stomach. He gently pushes Holster back, unsure of what else to do. He looks back down at Holster's broad chest and swipes the cloth over his ribs, reaching around him to get his back and side. Holster jerks suddenly and lets out a little pained sound, a  _ softharsh _ noise from the back of his throat, and when he hears it all Ransom can think is,  _ pretty. _

Ransom takes a step back, hands raised in surrender, and absolutely does not think about the uncategorized arousal that just pooled deep in his stomach.

"What happened?" Ransom asks, hand squeezing the washcloth so tightly that drops of water gather between his knuckles and run down his raised arm. Holster twists and lifts his arm, revealing the dark bruise that's painting his skin black and blue. It's not large enough to be worrying but it's definitely big enough to be impressive, and Ransom's about to ask  _ what happened, who hurt you, why wasn't I there _ , when he realizes that, actually, he was. They played Harvard on Thursday, and Holster had been slammed into the short boards in front of the bench just before a shift change. He hadn't thought much of it once Holster waved him off; he trusts Holster enough to tell him when he's really hurt. 

Holster turns back and forth, muscles shifting under his skin as he tries to find the best way to view his bruise. "Shit," he murmurs once he twists around and moves his arm just so. "It didn't look that bad yesterday," he explains just as Ransom steps back into his space. Ransom places his hands on Holster's torso, letting his fingertips trace around the edge of the bruise to feel if anything's hurt beneath the skin. Holster jerks when he presses too hard, and Ransom pulls his hands away in a flash. 

"No, it's okay." Holster says immediately, grabbing onto Ransom's hand. He places it back on the bruise, wincing when Ransom's palm is flush against his skin. Ransom presses again, just a little, to make him wince again. He drinks in the view, mesmerized by the wrinkle in Holster's brow and the tightness in his lips. Suddenly, Ransom's struck with the same feeling as before. Holster's gorgeous like this, but Ransom knows he'll look even better when he's done.

"You're still sticky," he says quietly. Holster nods and lifts his arm again, shifting so Ransom can wipe the dried beer off his skin. Ransom scrubs over his back, down to his waist, and slowly, with his eyes trained on Holster's face, drags the cloth directly over the bruise. Holster winces but he doesn't move. Ransom presses harder, and Holster lets out a small gasp, a high wisp of a sound, but he doesn't move. He looks down at Ransom, hands at his sides, and waits for him to do it again. 

Suddenly, Ransom's struck with inspiration. He drops the cloth to the floor and places his palm back on the bruise. His other hand hooks around the back of Holster's neck, just like he had downstairs, and Holster shudders beneath his hands. He lets out a moan and his arms jerk forward, like he wants to reach for Ransom but doesn't know if he should. His cheeks are flushed a gorgeous shade of deep pink as he looks down between them, only lifting his gaze when Ransom waits. He glances up through his lashes, unsure and utterly breakable. 

In that moment, Ransom only knows one thing - he wants to be the one to break him, to strip away the bravado and bro-y exterior to reveal the soft underbelly of whatever's beneath and before Ransom can even begin to think about  _ how  _ to do that Holster's leaning in, moving of his own accord, to kiss him.

It's not how he ever would have expected Holster to kiss. It's soft, contained, tenuous, until Ransom inhales sharply through his nose and pulls Holster down by his neck. The kiss shifts, deepening, growing more desperate by the second. Ransom presses his palm against the bruise and Holster gasps, his hips jerking forward. He tries to move back but Ransom follows, moving until their bodies are pressed together. Holster's just as hard as he is and for all the times Ransom's seen his best friend's dick in the shower and dressing room he's never thought about how it would feel to have it pressed against his thigh. 

He likes it, he more than likes it. He likes it so much he rolls his hips against Holster's thigh and Holster groans into his mouth, low and already so desperate. Ransom tips his head to break the kiss and Holster surges to chase him, his hands coming to rest on Ransom's hips. Ransom's hand automatically tightens around the back of his neck and Holster freezes, hands falling back to his sides as he straightens up. 

"I need," Ransom begins, then pauses to loosen the grip he has on Holster’s neck. His hand slips down the side of his neck but he doesn’t remove it. "I need you to tell me you want it." He says, gazing straight up at Holster. He can feel Holster’s pulse jumping under his fingertips. 

"I want it," Holster says quickly, pressing forward again until Ransom stops him. When he meets resistance he settles back down, standing still in the middle of the room. 

Ransom shakes his head, because that’s not what he meant. "No, do you want..." He trails off, glancing down at Holster’s side as he presses his palm directly on the bruise, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Holster shudders under his hands, eyes slipping shut as a shiver works its way up his spine. He swallows once, twice, then opens his eyes. "I want it," he says quietly, just over a whisper.

Ransom inhales deeply, taking a calming breath. Holster waits, still and small, eyes trained on Ransom's face. Ransom smiles up at him and leans forward to kiss him, gently, lingering for a moment. Suddenly, he shoves Holster with both hands, sending him stumbling until his back hits the wall. Holster has to reach out to grab onto the bunk bed to keep from falling, but before he can speak Ransom's on him again, kissing him with sharp teeth and insistent lips until he sags against the wall, unable to concentrate on anything but him. 

Everything starts to feel fuzzy around the edges. Ransom’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol, the lack of oxygen, or just kissing Holster, but he’s not complaining either way. He leans more of his body weight against Holster to pin him against the wall and drags his fingertips directly through the bruise as he thrusts against his partner smoothly. Holster moans, hips jumping, so Ransom does it again. He pokes at prods at the blue-black circle, drinking in Holster’s moans and whimpers. He’s loud, which Ransom expected, because this is Adam Birkholtz after all, but when he breaks the kiss and looks up he isn’t ready for how  _ wrecked _ he looks, lips bitten red, flushed from his cheeks to his sternum, chest heaving under Ransom’s hands. 

Ransom tips his head forward to press his lips against Holster’s collar bone, grinding up against his thigh. He bites here and nips there but returns to Holster’s lips time and time again, squeezing the back of his neck and pushing against the bruise in every combination he can think of. There are an infinite number of ways to ruin him. 

He bites down on Holster’s bottom lip just to hear him whimper, then pulls back to lean their foreheads together. "You look so good like this, Holtzy, you're so good," Ransom pants, too far gone to have any type of filter. 

He slips his hand around to the front of Holster's throat, settling his palm over his trachea, but before he can even squeeze down Holster lets out a moan and tenses, hips jerking against Ransom's as he comes. He tilts his head back, baring his throat, it's that image, of Ransom's own hand wrapped around Holster's throat, is what sense him over the edge. He presses against the bruise one more time, just to hear Holster cry out, and then he's coming, head tucked against Holster's neck as he shakes through the aftershocks.

He stays there, pressed up against Holster's chest, until his breathing evens out. His hands slip from Holster's neck and side but when he moves back, Holster wraps a firm arm around his waist. 

"No," Holster says, holding Ransom tightly against him. 

"It's okay, I'm staying, Holtzy, I'm staying." Ransom soothes, rubbing up and down Holster's sides in an attempt to relax him. It works, marginally, but there's still a sharp, desperate edge to Holster that Ransom knows should be smoothed down. "Hey," he says, tapping on Holster's chest to get his attention. "Let's lay down. I won't go anywhere," he bargains, and Holster's silent for a long moment before nodding. 

It takes them longer than it should to get to the bed. Holster agrees to move but refuses to let go until Ransom calms him again, and by the time he's pressed Holster down on the mattress the come in his underwear has gone cool and sticky. It feels awful but he lowers himself down on Holster nevertheless; he can't leave him now. He puts almost his full body weight on Holster, relieved when he lets out a sigh and finally relaxes, practically melting onto the sheets. 

"Good," Ransom murmurs, and Holster somehow goes even limper, the last of the tension bleeding away. Ransom can still hear the party going on beneath them but he still falls asleep, listening to the even sound of Holster's breathing.

Waking up is terrible. Sunlight shines directly into Ransom's eyes even though he's wedged himself between the wall and the bed and he's somehow freezing despite the fact that it's early September. He turns over with a groan, half his body asleep or prickling with pins and needles as the sensation returns to his limbs, rolling until his legs hit something warm. Ransom blinks, trying to wake up, and realizes that his shins are pressed against Holster, who's sitting on the edge of the bed as he rubs his eyes.

Everything suddenly comes flooding back: the beer, the washcloth, the bruise, the  _ kiss _ , how he'd shoved his best friend up against a wall and hurt him until they both came. Ransom presses his face against the pillow and tries to take a calming breath through his nose. The pillow smells like Holster's shampoo and Ransom's cocoa butter lotion he always steals and somehow, it makes Ransom feel better.  

"What happened last night?" Holster asks, scrubbing his face over his hands. When he looks over at Ransom his eyes are red rimmed from leaving his contacts in all night. 

Ransom has no idea what to say.  _ I hurt you and we both liked it _ doesn't feel like the right answer even though it's the truth. Ransom swallows and shifts, giving himself time before answering. "I spilled beer on you, then we came up here, and," he trails off, unable to finish the thought. He can't lose Holster now because of, of whatever that had been, and Ransom doesn't know much about how or why last night happens but he knows this: his friendship with Holster is more important than any of that, no matter how hot it had been or how right it had felt.

"And kissed. Yeah, that's all I got." Holster adds, and relief and guilt pool together in Ransom's stomach but the relief wins out . Holster doesn't remember, or at least he’s pretending like he doesn’t remember. All he knows is that they kissed, and they can come back from that. Ransom can feel the faint pounding of a hangover pulsing in the back of his skull and for all he knows, he’s not remembering the night before correctly, either. They’d both been drunk.

"That's all I remember. We must have gone to bed right after." Ransom lies, pretending like they both don't have dried come plastering their underwear to their skin. "Man, Shitty would be so proud of us. Bros kissing bros," he jokes, and the muscles in Holster's bare back relax before he twists around.

"We good?" Holster asks, holding out a fist. 

Ransom sits up to bump it immediately. "Course." It's true. They'll always be good. Last night was an anomaly, something frightening and unknown and Ransom knows he can forget how gorgeous Holster had looked if he tries hard enough. 

"Cool. Dibs on first shower!" Holster springs up out of bed, just barely avoiding hitting his head on the top bunk. He's halfway across the room before Ransom can respond. 

"Hey, fuck you, man! You got first shower yesterday!" Ransom yells, but Holster's already at the steps. He turns, grinning, and just like that Ransom knows they're back to normal despite the faded red marks dotting Holster's chest that he  _ knows _ he made.

"Dibs are dibs, my good Ransom. What are we, lax bros?" Holster's footsteps thunder down the stairs and then he's gone. Ransom rolls over and stares at the whorls on the planks above him, remembering how Holster's teeth had bared when he came, how much he'd  _ wanted _ it, how he'd pressed his fingers into the bruise just to make Holster twist and moan, and he knows it has to be the last time. He takes a deep breath and rolls over, pressing his face into Holster’s pillow. 

It won’t happen again.   
  



	2. in the fall

Exams were not kind to Ransom, so Holster had to be kind to him instead. It’s how they work - how they’ve always worked. Holster knows he’s loud, obnoxious, and not a generally pleasant person to be around. But Ransom likes him, for some reason Holster can’t discern, so when Ransom needs help, Holster helps. That’s an easier answer than  _ I am there because he needs me, I will always be there, he is my best friend and he is more than my best friend and I will never let him down. _

That’s kind of an intense thought for 8:34pm on a gloomy February evening, so Holster shuts it down. He’s altogether far more self aware than most people expect him to be and part of that is knowing exactly when to construct a neat little box to file away emotions he doesn’t have any use for. Holster likes to focus on things he can actually control so he’s there when Ransom needs him and he’s even there when Ransom doesn’t and that’s just how they work. 

He’s always there, just like Ransom is always there. Not even The Night could tear them apart. The morning after  _ I want it _ , after  _ you look so good like this, Holtzy, you’re so good _ , after Ransom pressed him into the sheets to put him back together after he so carefully took him apart, after all of that and after pretending like none of it had ever happened, they're still  _ there _ .

And look - it might have been the best sexual experience of Holster's life and he might replay it over and over in his mind whenever he jerks off and he might wrap his hand around his own throat and imagine it's Ransom's fingers pressing into his skin and on nights when he feels low he might burrow under blankets to replicate the weight of Ransom's head on his chest - but Holster's ignoring it because Ransom's ignoring it and if that's what makes them okay, if that's what makes them able to  _ be there _ then he's willing to do it.

He is with Ransom and Ransom is with him and they're not  _ together _ but it's enough. Ransom will always be enough because being his best friend is still the privilege of Holster's life. The hot, kinky,  _ how does he know exactly what to do to make me scream _ sex is just a bonus, one Holster can live without. He cannot live without Ransom; he won’t. 

They're only a few weeks into the new semester and Ransom is already spread far too thin. He's started sleeping through his alarm and accidentally skipping meals, behavior that usually only happens at most two weeks before exams. This level of stress is unprecedented, like nothing Holster's seen before and he knows something has to change. He's accustomed to knowing exactly what to do to help Ransom succeed, be it an extra mile on the treadmill or five more minutes of sleep or to cut him off before he finishes his last problem set so he can get through enough REM cycles to be ready for the next day, but right now he has no idea what to do. All he knows is that he has to do  _ something _ because he’s the only one who understands Ransom when he gets like this. Bitty’s big, concerned eyes and Jack’s quiet, intense talks just do more harm than good and Ransom really can’t afford more harm right now.

He’s a coral reef, a delicately balanced, intricate system. He’s a natural wonder of the world and Holster is the foremost expert on his habitat and behaviors. That’s not something he takes lightly.

The reef in question is sprawled on the bottom bunk, surrounded by thick textbooks and printed out PDFs of data sets and scientific studies while Holster nervously taps his fingers against the desk and fights the urge to turn around for the fifth time in as many minutes to check on him. Ransom will be the same as he was sixty seconds ago, just like he was sixty seconds before that, and Holster needs to learn how to deal. 

Holster’s just successfully stared at his econ reading for seven uninterrupted minutes - an heroic feat, if you ask him - when a series of loud  _ thumps _ startles him. Holster jumps in his seat, unprepared for the sudden sounds, and spins in his chair quickly. He bangs his knee against the desk in the process, startling himself again. 

“Fuck,” Holster whines, rubbing his hand over his sore knee as he drags the word out. There’s already a red splotch on his skin where he’d connected with the desk; it’s hot to the touch and he knows it’s probably going to bruise. Perfect. 

“You okay?” Ransom asks from across the room. When Holster looks up he’s sitting up on the bed, the textbooks and papers spread out over the floor. He must have knocked them off. 

Holster nods automatically, even when his face twists in a wince. “‘Course,” He says, but it must not be convincing because the next thing Holster knows Ransom is kneeling in front of him, eye level with his knee as his cool fingers trace around the red mark. Holster swallows once, twice; Ransom’s investigated his bumps and bruises before but the last time he’d done this it started with  _ Put your hands on my hips _ and ended with  _ Shitty would be so proud of us. Bros kissing bros. _ Holster loved everything that happened in between but he’s not sure if he can ignore it if it happens again (he’s not sure he wants to). 

“What’s with the, uh, yard sale?” Holster asks, pausing to clear his throat so he speaks with his usual cadence. Ransom glances back at the mess of books and papers piled on the floor and shrugs, just once, before turning his attention back to Holster’s knee.

“Got frustrated, I guess.” Ransom mumbles as he skates his palm over Holster’s knee cap, carefully avoiding the injury itself. It’s not like him to lash out at his textbooks when he’s stressed out. “This semester sucks and midterms are still weeks away. I just want -” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. Holster resolutely ignores how his breath fans over his knee and up his thigh. 

Holster waits for Ransom to finish his thought, but the words don’t come. Instead, Ransom’s focused on his knee, straightening it carefully to see if everything’s still in place. “What do you want?” Holster asks, bending his knee to draw Ransom’s attention back in. 

Ransom’s fingers tighten on his calf. “I just want something I can control. It feels like I’m - It’s like I’m driving and the car is spinning or hydroplaning or some shit and I can’t get it straightened out. Like I could crash any second.” Ransom’s eyes are trained on the floor, hands still wrapped around Holster’s calf and thigh, and he looks so confused, so out of his depth and overwhelmed, so  _ lost _ and distinctly un-Ransom-like. His hands are trembling so slightly that even Holster wouldn’t have noticed if Ransom wasn’t touching him. 

(Later, Holster will blame everything on Ransom’s shaking hands.)

“So control me.” Holster says with a little half-shrug, like it’s no big deal. In the moment, it doesn’t feel like it is. Ransom’s eyes snap up to lock with his, mouth hanging open in shock. “What? You want something you can control and I’m right here. It makes sense.” Holster leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The cacophony of the Haus floats up through the floorboards; Holster can hear someone going up or down the steps, distant laughter and the smattering of fake gunfire from Call of Duty. Through it all, Ransom stares up at him, eyes wide and mouth open. At least his hands have stopped shaking. 

It takes him a long moment to speak. “I’m sorry, what?” Ransom asks, and for once Holster doesn’t want to tease him for his long O’s and unnecessary Canadian politeness. 

“Think about it.” Holster says. He’s had a whole three minutes to think about it, and the longer he considers it the more sense it makes. “You’re crazy busy already and I can help! We’re already together eighty five percent of the time so I’m definitely the best candidate and I  _ know _ you. I know your schedule and what you like and what you don’t like and the way you like to do things so if you have stuff you need to do but don’t have time to do, I can do it.” Holster’s words gain speed as they fall from his mouth. This can work, he knows it can, and at this point he’s willing to do anything to help Ransom. It’s a win-win. 

“I can’t -” Ransom begins, but Holster cuts him off before he can continue. 

“You can! Look, you can’t control when we have practice or games, you can’t control when your assignments are due or when you have tests. You can only control how much you study and we both know you go overboard with that and dude, I know you don’t think panic attacks are a big deal but they are to me and if you have something else to focus on it might help.” Holster says, barely pausing for breath. Ransom’s eyebrows are drawing together, lips pursing into a frown. He’s thinking about it. Holster takes a deep breath, and plays his final card. “Besides, it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”  Ransom’s eyes go wide again and he shakes his head. Holster can feel himself blushing; his cheeks must be beet red by now but he charges ahead. “I know you remember. I do, too.” Holster says softly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. Holster twists his fingers into the synthetic material of his basketball shorts. “I’m not saying - it doesn’t have to be exactly like that, if you don’t want. But we both know this is something you can do and I think it might help. I think we should at least try it.” 

Ransom removes his hands from Holster’s leg. Holster’s stomach drops. 

Fuck. 

Ransom leans back until his ass collides with the hardwood floors, legs sprawled out in front of him. Holster waits. Ransom tilts his head to the side, eyes drifting from the floor up to Holster’s face. Holster waits. Ransom draws his bottom lip between his teeth, crossing his arms as he considers Holster’s case. Holster waits. 

“We’d have to have rules.” Ransom says suddenly, lifting his gaze to meet Holster’s again. Holster slips out of his chair and sits on the ground, cross legged, across from Ransom. 

“Of course,” He agrees. Ransom nods.

“And it’s strictly on a trial basis. We do it until midterms are over and then we reevaluate.” Ransom continues. He’s tapping his fingers along his crossed arms, a nervous habit he picked up from Holster at some point. 

“That’s fair.” Holster says.

“And you tell me the minute - no, the second - the  _ nanosecond _ you want to stop.” Ransom uncrosses his arms just long enough to draw his knees up to his chest. Holster scoots closer and clasps his hand around Ransom’s ankle; it’s one of the few places he can stand being touched when he’s curled up like this. 

“I promise.” Holster says, leaning to the side so he’s in Ransom’s line of sight. “Do you promise?” 

“To stop when you need me to? Fuck, Holster, of course I do.” Ransom’s face falls as his grip on his knees tightens. Holster shakes his head immediately, squeezing Ransom’s ankle to get his attention. 

“No, I trust you do to that. Do you promise to tell me if you want to stop?” Holster asks gently, placing his free hand on Ransom’s calf in an attempt to soothe him.

Ransom nods. Holster stares him down. “I promise.” Ransom finally says. Holster squeezes his ankle again; his lips quirk up in a tiny smile as his grip on his knees loosens. “Okay.” Ransom breathes. He nods his head once, firmly. “Okay.” He repeats, voice stronger this time. 

“Okay.” Holster echoes. He pushes himself up into a standing position, giving his knee an experimental bend. It doesn’t really hurt anymore, but he knows that might change tomorrow when the bruise forms. He offers Ransom a hand; Ransom takes it automatically and Holster pulls him up. They stand in the middle of the attic for a moment, holding hands, until they both let go. Holster’s arm swings down to his side; Ransom’s twists in the bottom hem of his shirt.

Ransom takes a deep breath. “I have to study. You should - um. Finish your reading.” Ransom stumbles over the command but he settles into it eventually. His eyes look clearer, back straighter, shoulders more square. Holster opens his mouth, about to acquiesce, when Ransom continues. “And tomorrow you should write a list of everything you don’t want to do. Stuff that’s off limits.” Ransom instructs. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Holster agrees easily, turning around to take his seat at the desk. He settles into his reading, making sure to annotate and underline important passages so he can show Ransom proof if he asks for it. Behind him, he hears books being stacked and papers straightened until, eventually, there’s a soft sigh as Ransom sits back on the bed. They’re back where they were before but now the silence feels different when it settles over Holster’s skin. Something has shifted. He likes it, he thinks. 

Holster hands in his list approximately twenty four hours after they make the deal. It’s fairly short; he isn't sure exactly what he needs to specify yet. Thus far it’s only five items:

  1. Games are off limits and I don't want the team to know anything about it
  2. You don't decide who I can/cannot talk to
  3. You don’t get to say if I go home or stay on campus during breaks
  4. I’m allowed to ask why you want me to do something
  5. I can add anything to this list whenever I want



It's written out on the thin graph paper Holster uses in all his notebooks, his messy scrawl laid out in a surprisingly neat list. Ransom folds it up and keeps it tucked between his phone and his plastic protective case so he can look it over whenever he needs. He has the rules memorized but sometimes he pulls it out and rubs his thumb over the folded corner.

The commands come slowly at first. It’s difficult to fill the space between wanting something, seeing that Holster’s around, and actually asking - no,  _ telling _ \- him to do it. He’s going to order his best friend around and the only reason they think he can do it is because of a drunken evening they still haven’t talked about. Ransom doesn’t know if they ever will. Instead, all he knows is that he has a million and one things to do and that Holster can help with sixty percent of them but that doesn’t make it easier to ask -  _ tell _ \- him.

_ So control me _ , Holster had said. It sounded so simple when he suggested it.  _ I want it _ , he’d said, pupils blown and face flushed, bare chest heaving as droplets of water slid down his ribs.

Ransom stares at Holster from across the kitchen table, a half eaten pie between them, for five minutes thinking about those drops on those ribs over that bare expanse of warm skin before Holster closes his laptop with a heavy sigh.

"Dude," he says, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. "Stop staring. You're freaking me out." The words might be forceful but he says them gently, a small smile lifting the anchors of his lips.

Ransom groans and tips forward until his head rests on the open textbook in front of him. "I'm trying, bro, but I'm all up in my head. Maybe we should just call the whole thing off." His mouth is smashed into the cool pages but he knows Holster will be able to understand him. Holster always seems to know what he's saying, even when he's wearing a mouth guard or has a mouth full of baked goods. Holster's chair squeaks when he scoots over the laminate floors and the moment there's silence a warm, heavy arm drapes over his shoulders. 

Ransom turns his head so he can see Holster's face and suddenly, inexplicably, Holster looks utterly breakable, just as raw as That Night. It’s different, seeing his soft blush, lowered gaze, and long lashes in the light of day. Sunlight streams in through the window behind him, illuminating his hair with a golden glow, settling along his red cheeks and sharp jaw. There’s something almost sculptural about him, as if he was carved in stone with the utmost precision but Ransom’s tempted to reach out and touch him, just to see if he’ll shatter under his fingertips. He thinks he might. He did last time, and Ransom remembers every single gasp, every flushed cheek, every moan, every whimper, every single desperate edge he’d uncovered and then smoothed over. 

Holster swallows, looks up at Ransom through his lashes, and speaks. "We haven't even tried it yet. This is our best bet so I'm not going to let you give up just because you aren't used to it yet. Just try it, please?" Holster asks, and Ransom can never say no when he’s like this, so soft around his usually hard edges. 

"Get my flashcards out of my backpack and quiz me on them." Ransom studies Holster's face as he speaks, searching for any sign of annoyance or displeasure. Instead, he gets a smile and a warm squeeze before Holster reaches down for his backpack to extract the cards. He shuffles them, quickly, and makes a show of leaning back to Ransom can't cheat but he doesn't move his chair away.

"Talus," Ransom reads. "The ankle bone." Holster nods and sets it on the table. "Ulna. The forearm, runs from the elbow to the outside of the hand." Holster nods again. Ransom’s leg relaxes, tilting to the side until his knee bumps against Holster's thigh. Holster doesn't move his chair away.


End file.
